


9 pm on a wednesday

by rpshoodini



Category: Twisted-Wonderland (Video Game)
Genre: BAMF Scarabia, Blood, Emotional Constipation, a power couple toboso would be proud of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:55:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25727035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rpshoodini/pseuds/rpshoodini
Summary: Kalim got ambushed, Jamil rushed to the rescue, then they dealt with the aftermath with the help of some cold tea. In other words, just an ordinary school night at Scarabia.
Relationships: Kalim Al-Asim & Jamil Viper, Kalim Al-Asim/Jamil Viper
Comments: 10
Kudos: 108





	9 pm on a wednesday

Receiving no cheery exclamation of “thank you, Jamil!” or another equally boisterous greeting along those lines when he knocked on the door that led to the room of Scarabia’s one and only dorm leader, Jamil immediately knew that something was amiss.

He froze. His right fist hovered just slightly above the door’s decorated surface while his left grasped tighter on the silver tray he had been carrying as he was about to deliver tea. Blood pounded in his ears. In an instant Jamil was alert in all his five senses, listening for the miniscule of sounds, the slightest clue to what was going on.

“Kalim?”

Still nothing.

A possible scenario arose; Kalim, napping in a position that would leave him with a crick in his neck later, traces of saliva drying on the corner of his mouth, but Jamil, used to the deceit and underhanded schemes not unusual in Land of The Hot Sands, knew better than anyone to be safe than sorry.

“Kalim, I’m coming in,” he warned one last time before firmly pushing the door open.

Inside the room was breezy. Pale moonlight sneaked between marble pillars, illuminating the numerous cushions of various colors in the center of the room. Not a person, including Kalim himself, was in sight. It was quiet, abnormally so.

From the corner of his eye Jamil caught a glimpse of movement and the familiar glint of a sword, and he didn’t think twice to shield himself using the tray he was carrying.

An ear-piercing sound resonated through the room as two metals collided, followed by a set of metallic noises as the jug and cups Jamil had neatly arranged slipped down the tray and hit the floor. In one swift motion he rolled backwards, abandoning the tray and landed on his feet. Jamil had his dagger wielded in an instant, locking his sight at the two masked attackers closing in on him from both sides.

The thug on the left charged first, lunging forward with his scimitar brandished, aiming for his flank. Jamil dodged his attack and seized his dominant wrist, showing no hesitation as he thrusted his dagger into the man’s throat. Blood bubbled from his mouth as his whole form convulsed, and when Jamil pulled the dagger out of his flesh he crumpled unceremoniously to the floor, unmoving.

Jamil didn’t have time to catch his breath as the second thug took advantage of his momentary daze to tackle him, for which he lost his balance and fell flat, air being forced out of his ribcage. The thug lifted his scimitar, preparing to strike. Jamil rolled away just in time as the blade impaled the floor board where his skull used to be only seconds prior. He was quick to return this fighting stance, but his opponent was faster, retrieved his scimitar and swung it once again at Jamil, making defense his only option. Their blades collided.

Jamil was more than adept at wielding his weapon of choice, but pitting a dagger against a larger, sturdier scimitar at a point blank encounter was never a wise idea. In a matter of seconds Jamil’s arms were trembling, his strength diminishing rapidly. Knowing that he wouldn’t be able to hold for any longer, Jamil gave up his attempt at resistance to instead slam his whole weight into his opponent’s torso with a cry.

Before the thug could even comprehend the sudden turn of events, Jamil had utilized the ensuing momentum to push him with all his might, heading towards the edge of the balcony. The thug bumped on the railing, tripped, then dived to the ground far below. Screams were heard, gradually fading until it culminated in a sickening crack, then went muted entirely.

No one could survive such a fatal fall. Jamil supported himself on the railing, heart still hammering against his chest wall.

“Put your weapon down.”

A rough command from behind his back sent a jolt through his body. He turned in haste. There, a man dressed in black similar to the previous two stood along with Kalim himself.

This man was built like a tank, making his comrades look puny in comparison, Kalim even more so. His intimidating stature easily towered over them both. However, what became Jamil’s main concern was the fact that he had Kalim within a headlock, his scimitar resting too close to Kalim’s neck for comfort. The Asim heir attempted to peel the man’s fingers off but was met to no avail. He eventually stopped squirming, arms dangling uselessly on his sides.

Seeing no immediate reaction from Jamil, the man tightened his lock, and the act must’ve pained Kalim in some way as it triggered a whimper to escape him. “Do you not hear me, kid?”

Jamil clenched his jaw. “Very well,” a huff, “my only wish is no harm is inflicted on my master.”

The dagger clattered when it hit the floor as soon as Jamil released his grip. With both his arms raised above his shoulders, he kicked the dagger in the thug’s direction for good measure, then clicked his tongue as if challenging him to keep his end of the deal.

While the satisfied hum he gave next was something Jamil had seen coming, the sneer was not.

“That thing, too,” he drawled.

Following the man’s line of sight, Jamil finally realized that he was referring to the magical pen clipped safely in his pocket.

Instinctively he reached for the pen, fingers caressing its smooth surface, hesitating. The man’s smirk grew wider.

“Jamil, it’s alright,” Kalim butted in despite his obvious struggle, tone too merry for a person whose life was literally on the line.

With his nerves still jittery from the combination of his previous skirmish and their currently tense atmosphere, Jamil found it really difficult to suppress the urge to just forget everything, yell at Kalim and knock some common sense into his head. Optimism alone couldn’t get them out of this situation, is what he was itching to say, but then their eyes met and it clicked; and Jamil wanted to laugh like a madman if not for their circumstances because honestly, how very disillusioned the whole NRC was for taking this guy’s partying hobby at face value when he should’ve been given more credit for his wit.

Kalim, knowing that his message had been received, silently winked at him. Jamil’s expression turned sour.

Shoving all the hard work on someone else, how typical, Kalim.

He began running his mouth anyway.

“Ah, this pen isn’t a weapon at all, but a mere accessory like this hairpin of mine is,” Jamil countered, his patronizing manner intentional.

The thug snorted before taking a higher register. “You think I’m a fool? Just because I’m not a sorcerer like you rich brats doesn’t mean I’d fall so easily for your bullshit.”

“You’re overestimating me,” Jamil replied calmly as he pulled his hood down, a sweet smile playing on his lips, “but if you can’t put trust in my words, then look into my eyes and let them prove my honesty, as eyes could tell no lies.”

“You little...”

His voice trembled in anger, but by the time it dawned on him that he had plunged into a trap, Jamil had begun chanting his spell.

“The one reflected in your eyes is your master. You shall answer when you’re asked, and you shall obey when you’re ordered. Snake Whisper.”

As soon as they left his lips, the thug’s orbs shone an unnatural red glow. His hold on Kalim loosened, prompting the latter to release himself from the headlock and elbow him hard on the chest. The thug coughed but remained frozen, his instincts to guard himself against pain paralyzed by Jamil’s magic.

“Who’s your master?” Jamil demanded.

“You are, Master Jamil.”

Came the answer in a voice with an emotionless, almost robotic quality echoing in the room. Jamil crouched down to reclaim his dagger while keeping his eyes level with the thug’s unfocused ones, then pushed himself back up before he began interrogating. The dagger slid back under his sleeves like a snake slithering into his lair.

“Who sent you?”

A familiar name, a notorious rival family of Asim, slipped out of his tongue without resistance. Not someone new, then. Jamil wetted his lips, a little relieved because this information meant there was no urgency to heighten his guard or map out possible culprits. Good, no additional job on his part.

A few more questions later he had managed to fish out a motive and a plan of an upcoming attack at the Asim’s main residence. Once he deemed it enough, Jamil glanced at the only other living person in the room, raising an eyebrow as he did.

“Kalim?”

The man in question swallowed thickly, but his eyes were determined.

“I’ve heard everything I need to hear and will report to the house as the heir of Asim,” he declared, his tone more authoritative than one might’ve expected, if the one expecting hadn’t known Kalim for as long as Jamil did. “Please proceed.”

Jamil nodded small and his dark strands swayed with the movement, casting shadow over his face. “Understood.”

The nameless thug’s eyes widened in fear as his arm moved on his own, lifting his scimitar up to his throat. Beads of blood slowly seeped out of the slit where cold steel met fragile skin. His glowing red orbs attempted to meet Jamil’s one last time, pleading for mercy, for a life spared, though as soon as he saw the hollowness behind those calculating eyes he knew that his fate had been sealed the moment he entered this bedroom.

“Thank you for your service,” said Jamil.

It was the last thing the thug heard before his blade dig deeper into his neck, and didn’t stop despite his own hysterical shrieks until his head was completely severed from his shoulders, then rolled on the floor like a stray mancala stone. The loud clang of the fallen scimitar reverberated through the still of the night as the fingers wielding it lost their will, followed by a thump that ensued when his decapitated body slumped forward, crimson spraying on the wall.

In their homeland, thefts are punishable by the chopping off of a limb in order to guarantee that the culprit would never be able to use said limb to repeat their crime. Similarly, the Asim family imposed a rule to not forgive any thug responsible for a failed attempt at their lives, as the fact that he had managed to raid their place meant he possessed knowledge of the exploitable gaps in their security, and the risk of this information being leaked would remain unless the thug himself is dead.

The incident tonight wasn’t their first, nor would it be their last, from the look of things.

Mindlessly wiping his hands on his slacks while thanking whoever assigned the signature color of his dorm in silence, Jamil strode across the room to approach Kalim. He wasted no time to start assessing his appearance, searching for the tiniest speck of blood or blooming bruises, all in a systematic one over.

“Are you harmed?”

Kalim shook his head, impatient. “Is Jamil harmed?” he pressed without missing a beat.

His selfless act is irritating, Jamil thought, gritting his teeth. A servant’s well-being shouldn’t have been in their master’s interest. Instead of a sign of goodwill from a childhood friend, Kalim asking about his injuries to him felt more like mockery, a jab at his incompetence.

But Kalim was persistent and seemed to be dead-set on upholding their eye contact unless he earned a reply. It was so foolish, reckless and foolish. Had this guy forgotten about his unique magic, just how easy it would be to put him under his control as he had demonstrated during their last winter holiday? Had he forgotten about the dismembered head sitting a mere foot from them, a literal proof of the lengths of Jamil’s powers?

Or perhaps Jamil was the bigger fool, because in the end it was him who averted his eyes first. It took Jamil one glance to notice how the other’s light colored hair stuck out wildly in every direction, how his turban was getting loose, crooked all wrong, barely hanging on his head and kept threatening to fall over his eyes. Something gnawed within him, desperate, which he eventually convinced himself into believing to be annoyance at the dishevelled display unseemly for the master of a Viper.

Jamil drew a breath. “Let me fix your turban,” was all he said in return.

Kalim giggled. “Jamil’s such a kind person.”

He leaned forward while bowing his head slightly to make it easier for Jamil to untie his headscarf. The weight of the fine piece of cloth fell into Jamil’s hands as he smoothen over the wrinkles. Folding, measuring how much of the cloth was needed to wrap twice around Kalim’s head, everything was muscle memory, perfected by practice and familiar like his own intricate braids.

Jamil tucked the leftover part of the cloth behind Kalim’s right ear, the final touch. He retracted his hands to admire his work, examining it one last time for anything less than impeccable.

Only when he was done did Jamil realize that Kalim had been staring intently at him as he worked throughout, his red orbs sparkling in amusement. For a second Jamil just stood there like a complete moron, having nothing to say yet unable to look away. He pulled his hood over his head and blamed this lapse on the disorienting sharp tang of iron permeating the air. Kalim gave him a relaxed smile.

“Were you about to bring tea for me?”

Jamil shrugged. “That’s the idea, but...”

Always the one to march to the beat of his own drum, Kalim nonchalantly walked past Jamil without waiting for him to finish. He lifted the silver jug that Jamil had forgotten in the heat of the commotion then gave it a little shake. His face lit up at the ensuing muffled sounds, indicating some tea still left inside although most had been spilled, forming a puddle on the floor.

Kalim returned with a jug in one hand and a cup in the other, then settled down on one of his scattered cushions. “Where’s your cup? Come on, let’s drink together.”

Jamil’s brows arched. “Kalim, we need to notify the headmaster in regard to this incident as soon as possible,” he tried to reason, a frown marring his face. “Besides, I also need to do some... cleaning up.”

The latter part of his statement was completed with a meaningful tilt of the head at the gory scene in one corner.

Kalim remained undeterred, nevertheless. “It can wait,” he insisted, concentrating on pouring his tea. Jamil was nonplussed.

“Trust me, you don’t want to sleep with those corpses in your room tonight.”

“It can wait, Jamil.”

“Now is not the time for your unreasonable desires.”

“I said no!” Kalim snapped, at which Jamil involuntarily twitched.

A loud silence washed over them. Apparently his candid reaction didn’t escape Kalim’s notice, as he was quick to regain his composure and added in a softer tone, “no, Jamil. It can wait. Sit down.”

No matter how generous and good hearted the guy was, it couldn’t deny the blood of the most powerful merchant family in the Land of Hot Sands running in his veins. Kalim Al-Asim wouldn’t take rejection as an answer, and he had no need for a unique magic to prove that.

Jamil couldn’t help but smirked a bit. Truth be told, he preferred this raw side of Kalim, someone he felt more worthy to call an equal, or even better, a rival, although obviously this would always be kept a secret.

“As you wish,” he conceded.

Staying true to his words, Jamil proceeded to sit next to Kalim. When Kalim pushed a cup into his palm, nudged himself closer, and rested his head on his shoulder, Jamil let him be. They were touching at a lot of places, their shoulders, their knees, but proximity, for them, wasn’t all that unusual. The only thing that managed to catch him off guard was when Kalim suddenly took his free hand and clasped it in his.

Kalim’s hand emitted warmth, the scars on his fingers tickling his skin. Both of them had calloused hands; Kalim from hours of playing the oud, Jamil as a result of being nipped by a variety of blades from kitchen knives to jambiyas. At a closer look, they might be more similar than they cared to admit.

Jamil threw his head backwards, squinting. For the first time since entering the room, he noticed a thick book left open on a cushion, and his eyes widened as the number of times he had encountered one in Kalim’s room was fewer than he had with kidnappers.

“You were studying?” he asked in disbelief.

Kalim let out a nervous chuckle. “Yes, for Trein-sensei’s test. Riddle and Azul tutored me this afternoon! You should also join our group study sometime!”

“With that octopus? No way.”

Ignoring Kalim’s disappointed whines, he stared distantly beyond the edge of the balcony, where miles and miles of desert surrounded their dorm. Deserts were not too different from oceans, in the sense that if they were large enough, they would appear seamless, not an end in sight. Staring at its horizon for too long could give one a paradoxical feeling of entrapment.

A gust of wind blew from outside, and along with it drowsiness tempted him to succumb into sleep, now that his adrenaline surge had worn off. Jamil wondered if his use of Snake Whisper had drained him or if it was the weight of the shackles he had been bound with ever since he was born which grew heavier with each sacrifice he made to fulfill his duty.

These moments used to be their ritual, long ago when killing still felt more like a sin and less of a necessity, when the faces of their pursuers haunted their dreams unless they were sleeping in the same bed. A time-out for them to heal and pretend to be the kids they weren’t allowed.

But people change. Those days were far gone. If not for Kalim’s sentiment, Jamil would’ve without no doubt chosen to proceed with his job as fast as possible then go straight to sleep instead of lounging around like some idiot. Nothing else was left to be desired since they’ve both learned their lesson, not a poisoning incident, nor an episode of rebellion would magically release them from their leash. Alas, fate isn’t just skin deep like henna ink.

Kalim began to hum, sending vibrations down Jamil’s shoulder with every note. It sounded nostalgic, probably a children’s song of some sort. It took his mind across the seas to his family home, to his younger sister, miles away from this absurd excuse of a tea party attended by a reliant master, an independent slave, and two corpses, one intact and the other headless, that would definitely put Riddle’s ridiculous tea parties to shame.

He thought, perhaps Kalim needed this just as much as he did, and immersing himself in the tune became easier.

After a while Kalim ceased humming. “Hey, Jamil,” he called, his voice pleasant.

“What?”

“I’m thinking of inviting all the second years to a celebratory banquet after our exams.”

A wrinkle appeared on Jamil’s forehead instantly. “And I suppose I will be the one in charge of everything ranging from the refreshments to the decorations?”

Kalim blinked, the mild puzzlement on his face nothing if not genuine.

“Well, of course?” He flashed him his toothiest grin. “You made me promise to tell you in advance the next time I want to hold a banquet, right? By telling you about it today, you’d still have a week until the day of the banquet!”

“During which I also have to prepare for my own exams!”

Kalim paid his protests no heed. “That’s the longest you’ve ever been given for finishing the preparations, Jamil! This is going to be our greatest banquet so far!”

His positivity bordered on terrifying. Seventeen years of growing up side by side, yet how Kalim got his endless supply of energy still remained a mystery. Jamil fully understood that there was nothing he could do once Kalim had entered his partying mode, hence his decision to give up arguing early.

Once the dawn had broken, the night would blur into tomorrow, and then another day would come, and after that other day yet another day would come. In the meantime, on Kalim’s cue, Jamil slipped into his role of the obedient follower he was raised to be. At seventeen their environment had nurtured them into a pair of excellent successors to their respective names, the life they had never asked for.

Someday, they would find their escape out of this desert.

“...You’re insufferable,” Jamil muttered under his breath, its menacing effect ruined by the upturn of one corner of his lips. Even if Kalim picked it up he didn’t poke on the matter, chirping excitedly about the show he wanted to put on to entertain his guests instead.

Jamil wondered if Kalim was being considerate, and as such, made a mental note to refrain from serving curry for breakfast as his token of gratitude. He took a sip of his tea.

(Until then, let’s indulge in this oasis of ours for a little longer.)

**Author's Note:**

> so i saw a lot of short comics featuring battle ready scarabia... and i like


End file.
